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I'm having another one of those days. Things are going relatively well; it's just that everything is backgrounded by the thought that I've been awake since 3:30. Blake had a restless night, which didn't help my anxiety & depression-fuelled insomnia. The meds are apparently taking their sweet time about kicking in, which is great, except that if I don't get any damn sleep I'm going to find it hard to maintain even the thin veneer of control I've so far held up in most public situations. Plus, extreme tiredness always makes me feel strangely lucid, and so I've spent most of the day convinced that I understand exactly why my marriage is on the rocks, and how it is all my fault. How much of this insight will survive a good night's sleep and some fresh neurochems is anyone's guess. I suppose I'm just in a martyring mood.

My dad drove me to work today, which was good, because I'll have snow tires by tonight (message to the sky: ok, we get it. You can ease up at any point.) But, my parents being my parents, there was also a hearty dose of Discussions About My Responsibilities. They are, for obvious reasons, preoccupied with my upcoming separation, and I get to reluctantly discuss plans when I'd rather be staring out the window. At the snow. And brooding over wasted opportunities. And wondering if anyone else knows how lucky they are to be loved, and thinking that I probably shouldn't startle them by telling them that out of the blue.

One of the upshots of this morning's decision was a plan to move Blake's bedroom from the downstairs layer to the upstairs layer, into what is now my craft and dressing room. My whole reasoning behind putting him downstairs was to make room for a second baby. I guess I have to face that little slice of reality, too. No Burt. No Una. Just painting my craft room green and feeling like my whole body is made of dense, fragile, imperfectly-fired pottery, waiting for the right impact to shatter once and for all.